Language in Time Part II of III: In Transit

For Part I, Winter Mornings, click here.

February 2002

Bbbbrrrriiiiiiinngggg!!!!!

Ten hours after waking up, the school bell finally rang to end classes. Differentiating a logarithm, graphing second derivatives, and writing a 10-page paper on Oedipus was the easy part of high school. A few years down the road, I said to myself, I would remember everyday as a miracle. But for now, I can only keep moving forward, this time to the Stuyvesant speech team practice.

These desires are for our nation, for our people, for our hearts, I proclaimed.
"No no no," said Ms. Sheinman. "It's our, two syllables...like HOUR...nor R."
These desires are for hour nation, for hour people, for hour hearts.

For 10-15 hours a week after school, I tried to perfect my English-speaking abilities. But I was always on the losing end in competitions, carrying too much of a Chinese accent and too much of a New Yorker accent to surpass the Nathan Pinsleys and Anna Germans. This afternoon was no different.

Once again, I stayed in school past six o'clock with the only bright side being that I could beat rush hour on the way home. I placed two quarters down the pay phone slot, and began to dial my home phone number.

"Hello?"
Hey mama, it's me.
"Didi, where are you? Are you almost home?"
Not yet. I'm still at this thing. The speech team.
"Oh, what do you do there anyway?"
I don't know!!! Just things...I have to go, I'll be home soon."
:::click:::

A few minutes later, I packed up my bookbag and headed for the Chambers Street 2/3 Train station. And with each step that lowered me into the sewers of this beloved city, I could finally be at rest. Laying back on the soot of the subway car, I would fall asleep in transit between two boroughs, in transit between school and home, in transit between two worlds I never felt really a part of.

I thought back to the conversation I had with my mother over the phone, and began ranting in my mind. I hated when she asked me questions like that, I thought to myself. How can I translate declamation, humorous interpretation, or even poetry in a language I barely understand anymore, much less speak? Not only did my Chinese accent seep into my English speaking, my American accent invaded my Chinese dialects as well.

But on the train, I did not need to speak. My battered eyes met her worn-out shoes and his clenched eyebrows and their tired arms. We were forever changing location on the train, never fully a part of anywhere, but still felt at peace with where we were. Until the seven train reached the Flushing-Main Street stop and home became a few miles closer.

By the time I arrived back, Mama was already washing dishes when I said Mama out of routine rather than respect and love. I swallowed my meal and headed to my room for more Calculus and AP US history homework. Through my peripheral vision, I saw my mother staring at me. She was stuck herself, between being proud or disappointed, between consoling me or yelling at me. But like I said, she was stuck. So she stayed motionless in foot until she was motionless in thought and walked away.

It was 1 am, and I was the only person up, trying to improve my diction by saying "Yellow Leather" and "Unique New York" over and over again. It was another one of those nights when I wondered when Mama and I changed, when we evolved from being best friends to awkward enemies, and worse of all, when we could never communicate to each other the obvious. But like all things in high school, there was no time to dwell on miracles and disappointments. I could only go forward. So I only recited...

Unique New York, Unique New York, Unique New York...till my eyes closed on itself.

Language in Time Part I of III: Winter Mornings

January 1994

She ripped the comforter off my bed, exposing squinted eyes to artificial light. It was one of those lucky winter mornings in New York -- when I woke up late enough to catch a glimpse of the sun before it set by the time I walked out of school. My sister was combing her silky black hair and my brother was snoring on the bed beside mine when she yelled from downstairs. "Didi! Come down here! Eat your eggs and drink your milk, we're late!" Yes mama! I responded.

I loved mornings like those that only my nostalgic mind could recreate. For six years, Mama walked me to school, hand in hand, humming the last song that came on that morning from CWTB, a Chinese radio station.
"How is school these days?" she would ask.
Fantastic! Mrs. Freed is this really old woman, but she's really nice and she asked if anyone wanted to read a story to the class, so I volunteered myself. And everyone clapped for me and it was awesome. I think I made at lot of new friends.
"Great! I'm happy for that. Did you hear about what happened to Auntie #4?"
No, what?

Some days, we walked to school quietly. But most of the time, we chatted and gossipped and complained. When she came home from work, I smelled her scent of chicken nuggets and french fries. I always gave her a hug and in return, she pulled out a Happy Meal toy she brought home from work. Mama expressed her love for me in conversations (however superficial), in time (however fleeting) and in gifts (however fried). At that point in my life, she was my best friend and hero. And if I knew who Freud was -- I would have agreed with him wholeheartedly. Of course I wanted a wife like Mama. She chose to save her hugs and kisses for when I was asleep and she rarely said "I love you." But she never had to waste her breath on something so obvious.

Pastels

"If they took away all my paints, I'd use pastels. If they took away my pastels, I'd use crayons. If they took away my crayons, I'd use a pencil. If they put me in a cell, and stripped me of everything, I'd spit on my finger and draw on the wall."

-- Picasso

How lucky for one to have a passion so great that it overtakes them? A state of self-suppression has ended and a new beginning is now here.